


There Is Neither East Nor West

by petrichoral



Category: Captive Prince - S. U. Pacat
Genre: Canon Continuation, M/M, Set immediately after book 2, Treat, Will be jossed by book 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:50:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1858668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petrichoral/pseuds/petrichoral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I left you an army at Ravanel. I was expecting at least a thank-you note."</p>
<p>"Writing letters isn’t my strong point," Damen said. "I brought you a hundred Akielons instead."</p>
<p>"<i>I brought you a hundred Akielons,</i>" Laurent repeated. "I believe I now know how a cat owner feels when their pet presents them with three dead starlings on their doorstep."</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Is Neither East Nor West

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jouissant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/gifts).



It wasn’t the oubliette, but that was about the only positive thing you could say about it. It was one of several cells buried in the ground under the dark, squat fortress of Marigney. There were no windows to let in the moon or let out the fetid air. A trickle of water dampened the pile of straw that served for a bed.  
  
In the corner a form slumped against the wall, nearly invisible in dark velvet. Pale hair glinted in the faint torchlight that fell from the crack of the slowly opening door.  
  
The prisoner lifted his head.  
  
"Catching forty winks?" said Damen, and had the supreme, once-in-a-lifetime gratification of seeing Prince Laurent of Vere at a complete loss for words.  
  
-  
  
Damen had anticipated the shackle. He had a hammer and two small wedges in a bag strapped to his back. "Give me your ankle," he said, crouching down.  
  
Laurent wordlessly extended his leg. Damen had the metal cuff off in two shattering blows.  
  
"You’ll be heard," Laurent said. He had winced, but there had been no sound of pain.  
  
"There’s no one left on this side of the keep to hear," Damen said. He offered Laurent a hand up.  
  
Laurent raised his eyebrows. "Just on this side? Were you trying to be subtle?"  
  
"I was in a hurry," Damen said. "This was the quickest way." He kept his hand extended. Laurent took it. He had the moment of astonishment under control, Damen saw, but he still didn’t seem to be able to take his eyes off Damen’s face.    
  
As Damen watched him stand, the adrenaline coursing through his body slowed and crystallized into rage. "You’re hurt."  
  
"I am stiff," Laurent corrected him.  
  
"They hurt you?"  
  
"Hardly, as of yet." Laurent was as precise and detached as ever. One sleeve was ripped right up to the elbow; bruises marred his face.  
  
Damen grabbed his wrist as Laurent preceded him out of the cell door, where Damen’s men were standing over the dead guards. "What does that mean?"  
  
"Minimal beating and a night’s hospitality on this nice stone floor," Laurent said coolly. "I am indebted for that to my uncle’s slow arrival: he is expected here tomorrow."  
  
"What—"  
  
Laurent didn’t attempt to move his wrist, but an edge came into his voice. "Did you come here for light conversation, or can we _leave?_ "  
  
Damen released his grip, recalled from his growing rage. "This way," he said. "I have men all along the route to the back wall."  
  
Laurent alongside him moved stiffly but fast. He said nothing more as they hurried along Damen’s hastily improvised escape route, but his eyes flicked to each Akielon soldier as if he was taking note of faces. They crossed the moonlit courtyard in dead silence. Damen boosted him up their improvised ladder from the roof of the stables. Laurent’s sore muscles made tough work of the climbing. Damen ached to help, but there was nothing he could do except climb behind him and hope.  
  
It wasn’t until they had reached the ramparts that Laurent broke the silence. "Excuse me if this is a question you are asked a lot," he said, while they were waiting for two of Damen’s guards to climb down the ladder on the other side, "but have you taken leave of your senses? Why are you here?"  
  
"We had a rendezvous," Damen said.  
  
"I didn’t expect you to keep it."  
  
"Shhh," Damen said, swinging himself onto the ladder. The darkness hid his momentary amusement. "We’re not here for light conversation."  
  
"You should be in Akielos!" Laurent hissed. Damen didn’t reply.  
  
It was a long climb to the ground. Every nerve in Damen’s body was straining to hear the sounds of alarm from the fortress they had just left. They should have some hours before the remaining soldiers discovered their fallen comrades, but just one over-zealous sergeant could ruin everything.  
  
It didn’t come. There were more men waiting at the base of the walls. They’d brought a spare horse for Laurent; he looked up at it and raised his eyebrows, rubbing the muscles in his side that seemed worst off.  
  
"Don’t worry," Damen said. "The infirm get a boost." He linked his hands together.  
  
"Thank you," Laurent said equably, and made liberal, painful use of Damen’s hands and shoulder. Once he was on his horse, he gripped the front of the saddle, slightly bent over.  
  
"Wait until the sweep riders get back to report on the patrols." Damen said. He looked at Laurent’s posture and felt the gnawing worry in his stomach grow. "Can you ride?"  
  
"Of course I can ride," Laurent said.  
  
Damen mounted his own horse and patted its neck, quieting its restlessness. There was nothing he could do for his own. Laurent met his third sidelong glance with a glare, and Damen raised his hand, palm-out. He was _trying_ not appear concerned.  
  
"I had a plan," Laurent said.  
  
"Did you," Damen said.  
  
Laurent tugged down his stained sleeve, fiddling with the loosened laces, clumsy fingers fumbling them. "It could, admittedly, have been a better plan."  
  
Damen reached over and closed his hand over Laurent’s, warming the stiff, cold fingers. When he had stilled Laurent’s hand, he redid up the laces for him. "Could it," he said neutrally. He had all the rage tamped down.  
  
"I made it in hurry," Laurent said, as if in grudging admission. "There was not a great deal of time."  
  
"Tell me who made those bruises," Damen said.  
  
"Why?" Laurent said.  
  
"Because I’ll take care of them."  
  
"Oh? Are you planning to go back into Marigney?" Laurent enquired.  
  
"I could," Damen said.  
  
Laurent gazed at the moonlit landscape in front of them. "I have missed you," he said. "It was so nice to have someone around who made the tentpegs look clever."  
  
Damen suppressed a grin, torn between rage and pure, inappropriate happiness at having him here. For the first time since he’d ridden from Ravenel and heard the rumours of the trap at Marigney, the burning in his chest eased a fraction. Laurent was safe. Laurent was _here_.  
  
The shapes of the sweep riders came into view, dim and distant, but he could see them signalling a clear passage. "Let’s ride."  
  
"What a novel idea," Laurent said. He urged his horse into movement. "Maybe there’s hope for you after all."  
  
-  
  
The night stretched out in front of them: mile upon mile of gently undulating hillside under the silver of the waxing moon. Laurent seemed to ease a little once they were out of the shadow of the walls, but it wasn’t until they’d ridden an hour away from Marigney, into the hills to the south, that Damen started to allow himself to relax. There was an exultation to riding into the night, grass flat under the hooves of your horse and good men behind you, and beside you—  
  
"Explain," Laurent said. "Why are you here?"  
  
He and Laurent had automatically drawn together to the head of the group, riding side by side. Damen felt slightly nettled, especially as he had been working up to asking his own, more important question. "How about _thank you for rescuing me_?"  
  
"I had rather thought that was implied." Laurent’s voice was raspy; two days and probably no water. Damen passed him his flask. Laurent paused in speaking to drink, then stoppered it fussily, not letting his canter slow for a moment. "Besides, I left you an army at Ravanel. I was expecting at least a thank-you note."  
  
"Writing letters isn’t my strong point," Damen said. "I brought you a hundred Akielons instead."  
  
" _I brought you a hundred Akielons,_ " Laurent repeated. "I believe I now know how a cat owners feels when their pet presents them with three dead starlings on their doorstep."  
  
"Dead ones wouldn’t have been much use," Damen pointed out.  
  
"I can only conjecture," Laurent said, "that, having failed to gain Nikandros’ support, you gave up on usurping Kastor and instead decided to start an exciting new career as a Veretian mercenary." He glanced behind them. "And apparently convinced a hundred of your equally brain-damaged friends to join you."  
  
 "No," Damen said. "Nikandros is supporting me." _As you knew he would_ , he thought, but didn’t say, in case he was wrong.  
  
"Then why are you here?"  
  
"I came back to help," Damen said. "With how things are, I thought we’d better deal with your problems first."  
  
Laurent turned to stare directly at Damen. His horse snorted and bucked its head, protesting the change of weight. Laurent leaned in towards the horse’s neck and concentrated until they were cantering smoothly again. "Don’t lie to me."  
  
"I’m not lying," Damen said patiently. From Laurent, any other reaction would have been strange. "I have more reinforcements for you to call on, but they’re holding Ravenel until I send word."  
  
"Damianos," Laurent said, and as much as he’d suspected, the sound of his name on Laurent’s tongue still sent a shocked warmth right to Damen’s stomach. "Every moment you are in Vere, Kastor gains strength in Ios. You should be on the other side of the border."  
  
"I _thought_ you knew." Damen said.  
  
"That is not what we are discussing!"  
  
"Your problems first," Damen repeated.  
  
"You are a _fool!_ "  
  
"I’m not the one who ran straight into the Charcy trap," Damen pointed out.  
  
Laurent’s hands went white on the reins. "I did not," he said, "run straight into it."  
  
"Then what were you doing in Marigney?" Damen said.  
  
"I had a plan to get out. My people were coming to get me."  
  
"When?" Damen said sceptically.  
  
"Tomorrow."  
  
"You said the Regent was arriving tomorrow."  
  
"I said he might," Laurent said. "It takes time to get the amount of chalis I needed to dose the guards."  
  
Damen took a deep, steadying breath of the night air. "You could have been tortured," he said, when he was calm enough to speak. "You could have been executed."  
  
 "I am not saying I did not miscalculate," Laurent snapped. "I did not plan on getting captured. I have been somewhat preoccupied these last few days."  
  
"I’m sorry," Damen said. For what, he wasn’t sure. He seized on the question before he could think better of it. "Are we still—?"  
  
"—a long way from my camp?" Laurent said briskly. "Yes."  
  
After a long silence, broken only but by the dull rhythm of hooves on grass, Damen said, "I didn’t even want to leave."    
  
Laurent turned his head away, determinedly looking at the horizon. "But you are the King of Akielos," he said. "And I am the King of Vere. Our paths are never going to lie together."  
  
Suddenly the fresh night air lay cold against Damen’s skin. "They lie together now," he pointed out.  
  
"They shouldn’t," Laurent said. "It’s just that you won’t go away."  
  
" _Laurent—_ " Damen said, but Laurent had already cut ahead of him, blocking his attempt to draw alongside. Damen gritted his teeth and fell in behind. They could talk in camp. It was hard enough to pin Laurent down when you were in the same room as him, let alone on a ride.  
  
They were cantering through a hill-valley now, and the straggling trees on either side were growing thicker. They had to slow to a trot. "We should be heading more to the south!" Damen called forward. "Your troops are at Tource!"  
  
"No, we’re fine," Laurent said. He heeled his horse into a curve around a fall of rock.  
  
Damen rolled his eyes and signalled his men to fall in behind them in a thin column. At some point, following Laurent on his madcap diversions had turned into a habit. But there were no villages around here for Laurent to be heading to, and there should be no clans in these hills. Just grass, and trees, and rock.  
  
And then they were surrounded by archers.  
  
Damen reined in sharply. They’d appeared from behind rocks, and trees, and from a shallow rise that didn’t seem deep enough to hold a person. In front of them, the fall of the hillside had hidden a cave entrance that debouched a dozen more.  
  
Jord was six paces in front of him, pointing a crossbow at his chest.  
  
Damen raised his hands away from his side slowly and carefully. He might have had a chance, if he’d gone for his sword the first moment he’d seen them. But they were Veretian uniforms. They hadn’t registered as a threat because he was too _used_ to them. Somewhere, Fate was laughing.  
  
"So you stayed," Damen said to Jord.    
  
"Damianos," Jord said coldly. "Your Highness, permission to shoot."  
  
"No," Laurent said, slipping off his horse and handing it over to a groom. "Damianos is working for me."  
  
Jord whirled around to face Laurent, betrayed. "Your Highness, you don’t know—"  
  
"If I didn’t, I think all these Akielons might be a clue," Laurent said.  
  
Damen’s men were clustering together in defensive formation. Half of them had their swords out and their shields up, but the Veretian archers were only yards away. They couldn’t miss. Damen swore. "Stand down!" he commanded, in a voice that echoed off the hills. "Stand _down!_ "    
  
The Akielons obeyed, if reluctantly, and sheathed their swords. A few of the Veretians – not all – lowered their bows.  
  
"Yes, that should do it," Laurent said, watching the solders as Damen slipped off his horse. "If there were any of my uncle’s patrols around, they’ll certain know we’re here now." He turned into the succession of shallow caves that were serving as temporary camp, unerringly confident although he could never have been here before. "Strike camp. Find me my commanders."  
  
Damen caught him on the way past. "I need to talk to you," he said. "In private."  
  
A raised voice came from behind them, swearing in Akielon. Both of them turned round to see an Akielon and a Veretian soldier trying their utmost to beat the living daylights out of the other, while a loose, hostile ring of soldiers from both sides formed about the both of them.  
  
Laurent raised his eyebrows. "Do you?" he said. "I think you might have more pressing concerns."  
  
Damen swore and ran over to break it up.  
  
-  
  
By the time he had roundly bawled out the culprit and seen to the resupply of his men, the train of Veretians was already starting to move. The camp was smaller than Damen had thought: only eighty men or so. "We join the rest in Cressay-de-Montfort," a sergeant told him. "It’s about thirty miles."  
  
"Where’s the Prince?" Damen said.  
  
"In the vanguard," Jord said, appearing from the column of soldiers in time to hear this last. His gaze on Damen was still hostile. "You’re to ride at the rear with your men."  
  
"I need to talk to him," Damen said.  
  
"You have your orders," Jord said. He put his hand on his swordhilt. "Come any closer to him and I’ll kill you myself."  
  
Damen gritted his teeth. There were at least twenty pairs of eyes on him, Akielon and Veretian both. "At least tell him I want to see him."

"I'm fairly sure he knows," Jord said. "Do you think he's there for your convenience?" Damen made a noise of outrage, which only made Jord look more contemptuous. "Of course you do. I don't know why I asked."

"That wasn't what I- Jord!" Damen half-started forward, but Jord had already wheeled away to the Veretian column.  

"Your Majesty?" his lieutenant said tentatively.

Damen forced himself to relax his grip on the reins. "Fall back," he said. "We follow the Veretians."  
  
-  
  
Cressey-de-Monfort was a small village in the foothills of the mountain range that spilled over this part of the Veretian border. It was not much to look at, in itself, but the thatched-roof cottages were situated at the mouth of a deeply defensible valley, a hidden cleft in the rock.  
  
And this was where Laurent’s forces were camped.  
  
The tents numbered scores. They were spread out in the shadow of the high cliff walls in military rows. Damen saw the structure he had trained the Veretians into and couldn’t help but feel a stab of satisfaction – he had made a difference to more than just himself and Laurent.  
  
Laurent’s gold-and-red silk confection of a tent was in the centre. Damen tried to find him again, and was told the Prince was bathing, and had left orders for Damen to see to his men.  
  
Damen stalked off to supervise the pitching of the Akielon camp with unnecessary attention to detail.  
  
It was late in the evening when a page boy finally summoned him to the command tent. By this point, Damen was frustrated but not surprised to find it full of Laurent’s advisors, including Enguerran, Guymar and the others who had come over to Laurent’s side. Jord was there as well.  
  
Laurent was the first to see him, and waved away the map that had been brought over to his camp chair. He had this set up like an audience chamber, Damen realized, with his councilors lining the sides. It was no longer the comfortable map-room where they had talked over the day’s training, There was no reason for Damen to miss that. He missed it anyway.  
  
There was a mutter as Damen entered. Most of the Veretians regarded him with barely-concealed suspicion. Jord’s expression was thunderous.  
  
Enguerran's had all the expression of a lump of rock. He stood behind Laurent's chair, and watched Damen approach.

Damen came within five paces of Laurent's chair, and stopped.

"Kneel," Enguerran said.  
  
Laurent was looking at him with his most viper-like gaze. Damen returned it steadily, ignoring Enguerran. "No," he said. "I am King of Akielos, and I will not."  
  
There was silence in the tent. Damen waited, tense, for the shout of _prince-killer_ , for the dagger in his back, but it didn’t come. They knew. They might not like it, but they knew.  
  
Enguerran cleared his throat. "You still stand before the King of Vere, Damen– Damianos," he said. "You are a claimant prince in enemy territory. If you come with the intent to see his Majesty regain his rightful throne, then prove it, and kneel."  
  
Laurent’s eyes were ice-blue marbles. Damen could read nothing from them. He’d thought this would be simple. He’d been a fool.  
  
"I am the rightful king of Akielos," Damen said slowly, still directly to Laurent. "I cannot."  
  
There was a longer, more dangerous silence. All eyes were on Laurent. Damen felt the tension building up, and with the tension, the rage. Laurent’s men outnumbered his, he knew, but last time it had taken at least ten of Kastor’s men to beat Damen to his knees; if Laurent decided to force him in front of everyone, then the King of Akielos would not, _could_ not quietly submit – but that would mean starting this war again.  
  
Akielos was not subordinate to Vere. He could not start this war. He could not kneel. He had to choose one.  
  
Laurent rose from his chair and crossed the two steps between them as if coming down marble steps from a throne on a plinth. There was no trace of his injuries in the way he moved. Damen steeled himself.  
  
Then Laurent was in front of him, a hand’s width from his face. Damen had become used to reading Laurent’s expressions. Sometimes blankness hid amusement, or pleasure, or interest. This wasn’t any of those. This was the iron wall Laurent hid behind when faced with the Regent. Helpless rage and a tragic sense of loss coursed thought Damen. He had been so certain, that if he just came back, they could fix things. That there had been something precious started that night, something they could build together.  
  
But if Laurent wouldn’t give him a crack, there was nothing he could do.  
  
Laurent moved. Damen tensed all over, expecting a blow, but all Laurent did was take his hand with limp fingers. They did not close all the way.  
  
Laurent leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. One kiss on one cheek, one on the other. They had all the warmth of a winter’s day. It felt just like when they had embraced in front of the Regent, back in the palace at Vere, except in the tent the air was colder, and Laurent didn’t even whisper in his ear.  
  
It did nothing for the rage and the sadness. Damen took shallow breaths, his muscles locked, and thought about the battlements of Ravenel.  
  
"We welcome our brother monarch," Laurent said, in his precise, emotionless way. "We accept his help in our time of need."  
  
In the wake of his words the gathering seemed to take on the weight of a formal court. The lower-ranking soldiers stiffened their spines, falling into the roles of ceremonial guardsmen. Enguerran nodded reluctantly; the others advisors and officers looked relieved.  
  
It was no longer Damen and Laurent in this tent, it was Akielos and Vere. Damen wondered if it had ever been Damen and Laurent. His chest ached.  
  
He should thank Laurent. He should probably add some suitable diplomatic phrases, as well. They were two kings, meeting, allying, helping each other. He’d dreamed of this. But in his dreams, Laurent had had that light in his eye, that secret spark of connection that told Damen that this was a great pretence, and that he was letting Damen in on it.  
  
Apparently they were sharing nothing now.  
  
"Does the King of Akielos require anything?" Laurent inquired. "The best tent and supplies should be made available for him. Find him a servant to attend him."  
  
"No," Damen said. The words came out rough, and he had to swallow to wet his dry throat. "No, I’m fine."  
  
-  
  
It was very late when Damen finished his inspection rounds and came back to Laurent’s tent.  
  
"What are you doing?" Laurent said sharply.  
  
"I thought I might sleep in here," Damen said.  
  
He was prepared to be thrown out. But Laurent didn’t immediately throw him out. He was sitting by the desk, on a camp stool, ankles indolently crossed and a cup of water by his arm, and he regarded Damen with narrowed eyes.  
  
"Pining, are we?" Laurent said. "I can see you now, wasting away, thinking nostalgically of sleeping in a slave pallet at my feet—"  
  
"Yes," Damen said.  
  
Laurent stopped. "What?"  
  
"I was pining," Damen said. He took off his sword and laid it on the stand by the door. "I can’t say I’m nostalgic for the slave pallet, but I’ll take it."  
  
"What?" Laurent said, again.  
  
"I miss you," Damen said simply. "Even if you don’t want me in your bed, I miss being around you."  
  
Laurent uncrossed his ankles. "And if I did want you in my bed?" he said, but his voice was all wrong, smooth and deceptively sweet.  
  
"I—" Damen said warily, then stopped, unsure of where the trap was. He tried again. "Do you think I’d say no?"  
  
Laurent’s knuckles clenched white. "Of course."  
  
"You’re angry," Damen said.  
  
"You mistake me; I’m overcome by your sweetness and charm. I’m about to swoon like an unfucked whore."  
  
"Laurent," Damen said, helplessly. He opened his hands. Honesty wasn’t just the best policy – it was the only one he had. "I don’t understand," he said. "Help me, here."  
  
Laurent gripped the edge of the ornate desk with one hand, so tightly that the moulding was nearly splintering in his fingers. "The King of Akielos snaps his fingers and expects the King of Vere to roll over like a bitch for mounting," he said. "Of course. I expect all Akielons would find that—"  
  
 _Oh._ "I’m not here," Damen said, "as the King of Akielos."  
  
In the silent that followed, he could hear Laurent’s ragged breathing. Light from the two guttering candles flickered on the ivory-white planes of his face. Damen felt his heart beating to match the rapid breaths.  
  
"Kneel," said Laurent, flinging the command out like a dagger.  
  
Wordlessly, willingly, Damen stepped back and went to one knee.  
  
Laurent’s hand on the table was now actually shaking.  
  
"How can you do that?" Laurent said, biting off the words. "You know the implications. I was there when you refused earlier. You are not lost to all common sense. How can you realise that and now do this?"  
  
Damen tilted his head up to catch every last nuance of Laurent’s expression. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t read them all. Selfishly, greedily, he wanted them anyway. "That was political," he said. "This is personal."  
  
For a moment Laurent successfully covered his face with a sneer. "And of course, you would be of exactly the same mind if I had taken you, rather than the other way around."  
  
Damen considered this idea and found it novel. Not all the time, maybe, but if Laurent was thinking like this, he wouldn’t reject it. "Do you want to?" he said. "We could try."  
  
" _Idiot!_ " Laurent exploded. He pushed himself away from the desk and paced across to the wall.  
  
Damen shrugged. "Maybe," he said, his knee pressing into the carpet. He waited.  
  
Laurent stopped in front of him. Damen looked up further. Laurent’s eyes were dark with turmoil, his hair had come to rest disordered across his forehead. He was like a blade, all slim lines and whipcord muscles and furious intent, and Damen loved him so much that, in that moment, he would have conquered three countries just to hand them over on a platter.  
  
"Don’t you understand," said Laurent sharply, "nothing can be personal. Nothing can be simple. Do you not _understand_ this, you stupid Akielon lump?"  
  
The certainty of Ios was behind Damen, welling up underneath him, thousands of years of solid rock and history. "This can," Damen said.  
  
Laurent made a noise low in his throat, quiet and terrible, like the rumbling of dam water with nowhere to go. His mouth was a straight slash in his face, his lips pinched together bloodlessly.  
  
He reached out with a clenched fist and rested it on Damen’s shoulder.  
  
Damen reached up and put both hands over Laurent’s, enveloping it in a touch that was carefully gentle. He recognised the signs in the way Laurent’s shoulder moved; remembered his pain on their ride from Marigney. "You’re sore," he said. "I can work out the pain. Let me."  
  
And the Laurent was collapsing down, crouching in front of him, both hands on Damen’s shoulders in a death grip and his head bowed, pressing into his shoulder. "I want to kill you," he said, as if each word was the fierce push of air escaping from a bellows. "Why is it always so _easy_ for you? It should have been one night. This should be over."  
  
A lance of painful hope stabbed through Damen's chest. He reached out and folded his arms around Laurent, and he and Laurent fell into some sort of embrace, all angles and gracelessness. "It’s not," he said. "It’s not, unless you say it is."  
  
Laurent was trying to get up; he didn’t seem to be trying to draw back, though, so Damen obligingly got to his feet as well, and after one unbalanced moment they were standing, in each other’s arms, Laurent’s head resting on his shoulder. Damen could feel the sharp ridge of a shoulder blade poking through the skin under his wrist, and it was uncomfortable, and he delighted in it.  
  
 "And if I said it was?" Laurent said. "What would you do?"  
  
Damen could feel the shape of the answer Laurent was expecting: the void where the shadows of Akielon troops fell, the unsigned treaty that could win him this vicious civil war. "Pine," he said.  
  
"Pine," Laurent repeated.  
  
"I might waste away, too," Damen said.  
  
Laurent snorted into his shoulder. "It would take a year or two before anyone noticed."  
  
"Unlike some people in this tent, I’m starting with enough weight to withstand a strong breeze," Damen said. "The troops would still be yours, though. _I’m on your side,_ " he added, when Laurent drew in a sharp breath to speak. "Whatever relationship we have."  
  
"That’s your only currency," Laurent said. His voice wasn’t even edged anymore: he seemed to have broken through the other side into resigned despair at Damen’s stupidity. "You should be holding off on the troops until I agree to fuck you. Don’t you know how this goes? Even Torveld knew how it went."  
  
Damen kissed the white area of skin and golden hair behind his ear. "The basic principle goes like this," he said. "I give you the troops."  
  
Laurent’s hands were around his neck, now. Damen wasn’t entirely certain if he was about to be caressed or strangled. He found it hard to care. Everywhere Laurent’s fingers rested on his skin, he felt a pleasant, spreading shiver.  "And then what?" Laurent said in his ear.  
  
Damen took a deep, slow breath. "And then nothing," he said. "And then you decide."  
  
"Akielos," Laurent said.  
  
"Akielos can wait," Damen said. "I’m not leaving. I told you: you come first."  
  
And then both Laurent’s hands linked around Damen’s neck, hard, and Laurent’s mouth met his, demanding and giving, sweet and infuriating and everything Damen was missing. Damen yielded eagerly to Laurent’s tugs and they walked back to the bed, falling on it while Damen unthreaded laces and Laurent pushed cloth aside, and after that it was a confusion of skin and cloth and hands both smooth and rough and awkward angles on the bed. Damen said, "I was going to massage your shoulder," and Laurent said, "I don’t care," and mocked Damen’s struggles with his laces. Then Laurent pulled him down onto the mattress and Damen went joyfully, without inhibitions, and sunk himself and both of them in the immediacy, in the easiness of touch.  
  
Sometime in the middle of it, Laurent stopped, and Damen surfaced briefly at the sudden, aching lack. " _Laurent—_ "  
  
"Tell me again," Laurent said softly, his hand still held a few inches above Damen’s skin.  
  
"What?" Damen managed. "Don’t— don’t _stop—_ "  
  
"Tell me you aren’t leaving."  
  
Damen lifted his head and managed to capture Laurent’s mouth. "You come first," he said, when they broke for air. "Laurent. You always come first."  
  
Laurent leaned down and bit his neck, and Damen pushed himself against him.  
  
They made love desperately, without care for Laurent’s side, then lay quietly while Damen made good on his promise, and then they both seemed to remember at the same time that they had thought they might never do this again and it turned desperate once more. But they had both covered thirty miles on horseback that day, on top of Marigney, and eventually they were both sprawled across the bed with exhaustion.  
  
"You get the cloth this time," Laurent said, without bothering to open his eyes.  
  
"Can’t move," Damen said.  
  
"Liar."  
  
"Incorrigible," Damen agreed. Laurent’s legs were heavy over his.  
  
Laurent sighed and turned onto his unbruised side. "You shouldn’t have come back," he said. "You put yourself at a disadvantage."  
  
Damen caught Laurent’s wrist, and kissed the almost translucent skin on the inside. "So do you," he said. "All the time. Every time you try and help someone, and you do that all the time. Love is an advantage made out of every little disadvantage."  
  
"That makes no sense."  
  
Damen turned his head so he could see Laurent, and grinned. "Then you should be right at home with it."  
  
"With being at a disadvantage? I can certainly—"  
  
"With love."  
  
He heard the soft indrawn breath. Damen shut his eyes, realising he’d gone too far, too quickly.  
  
Then he felt the faintest trace of a finger across his forehead. When Damen opened his eyes, Laurent’s face was above him, barely inches away.  
  
"I’m not," Laurent said. He continued to trace the invisible line around Damen’s face, as if Damen was a campaign to be puzzled out, a map that might yield up its secrets. He took a breath, and Damen felt his own chest move in rhythm. "But – maybe," Laurent said, the softest whisper in Damen’s ear, "maybe it would be nice – to learn." 


End file.
